James lay on his bed and stared up into blackness. The only light in his room was the neon-green of his alarm clock sitting on a shelf beside his bed, which cast a ghostly light onto the opposite wall. The clock read 2:23AM but James was wide awake. Eighties music spilled out of the radio; James had set it to turn off after fifteen minutes.

The announcer came and went between the songs about life and love. James just lay gazing at the ceiling. Eventually the music stopped and James accepted the fact that sleep was not near. He sat up and turned his bedside lamp. Slowly his hand made its way up to the radio and found the ON button. Once again the room was flooded with music.

James propped his pillow up against the head of his bed and leaned back, eyes closed, picking out the lyrics of an unfamiliar song. Then another song came on, one James instantly recognized. It was a vague and dreamy song of love; James didn't know the name. The song was not forever connected in his mind to Nichole; the memories flooded in to his mind.

He was sitting a row in front of her in the mini van. Too timid to sit next to her but too intoxicated with her presence not to watch her. Gliding through the cold, still, speckled night; talking and laughing and singing. He had made a fool of himself more than once that night, he remembered distinctly. And then this song came on, and the world was lost to Nichole. That was James's clearest memory: Nichole singing, eyes closed, body swaying to the music. So enraptured, so captivated... not unlike James himself in her presence. He had loved her so at that moment. He still did. And she would never know.

He loved her. And she would never know.

A tear slipped through James's closed eyes and ran down his warm cheek. The song ended.